The Books of Danté
by GundamWingFanatic90
Summary: Fëanor, from the Silmarillion, is often displayed as being harsh, cruel, and even psychotic. This is my take on things during his death, and after his rebirth. Slight FëanorNerdanel.
1. INFERNO

_**Written by GundamWingFanatic90.**_

**_Summary: Feanor, from the Silmarillion, is often displayed as being harsh, cruel, and even psychotic. Here's my take on his death, but with a slight twist._**

_The title and content were inspired by something my best friend told me about over the phone. She was talking about Dante's book about death, and mentioned that it had something like three parts or other, called 'Inferno', 'Purgatory', and 'Paradise'. Thus she inspired this three-part series._

_**Feanor, the Silmarillion, and all related/mentioned characters (c) J.R.R. Tolkien.**_

_**PART 1 OF 3.

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**_

_**The Books of Dante.  
Part 1.**_

_INFERNO._

It hurt. It hurt more than any pain he had ever known before, save only for the pain of her leaving, of their parting.

It burned him.

He could not feel anything but for the grief of his seven sons around him. He could not see anything but her unremarkable face; and yet it was beautiful in his eyes, as gorgeous as on the day he first met her and felt his soul calling, reaching, for hers even though he did not know her name. He could hear nothing but the sounds of the wilds, their sons' pleas for him to not go, to not leave them.

He could hear nothing but his mouth moving against his will, forcing them to uphold their Oath against even death itself. And he cursed Morgoth, for indeed it was that vile being that was coercing his lips into forming those words, those which had led to his own downfall, and those which would drag his sons, the only treasures he had ever truly cared for aside from his father and she, who was wise, into the darkness with him.

And how he hated it.

He cursed himself for being too weak to stop the black words from escaping the mouth that was no longer his to control. However, Morgoth could not break his spirit, the Spirit of Fire, the one renowned for being the Greatest of all the Eldar ever to have lived, and ever to come. He still possessed control over his eyes, and with that he tried to communicate to his sons that they were released from the Oath that he had never wanted to make, that they and their hosts should travel with Fingolfin and his people back to Aman, where they would be safe again, forgiven, and free of pain and suffering.

That effort was in vain.

He could hold on no longer, despite how much he longed to speak his own mind and not with the thoughts of the Dark One, how much he wished to survive his wounds that Gothmog had given him and regain control over his own body.

It burned.

His body was burning from the inside out with the heat of his spirit. He, in his grief, cried out to his sons, shouting his eldest's name before he was swept off to Námo's dwellings, the Halls of Mandos. He screamed Nerdanel's name through their bond as his hroä was turned to ashes.

And then, with one last yell of anguish, Curufinwë Fëanáro was whisked into grey, and then black.

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**_I could use some feedback, seeing as this is my first time publishing a work that delves into the world of J.R.R. Tolkein, and I would greatly appreciate it if anyone reading this would send me a review. This is, however, optional, and I will not withhold an update for lack of reviews. Thank you, and have a wonderful day._**

_**-GundamWingFanatic90**_


	2. PURGATORY

_**THANK YOU SO INCREDIBLY MUCH, TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED!! This means: Ellfine, lokimademedoit, MerryKK, and Legolas II Lassalanta.**_

_**Written by GundamWingFanatic90. Submitted 3-19-07.**_

**_Summary: Feanor, from the Silmarillion, is often displayed as being harsh, cruel, and even psychotic. He waits in the Halls of Mandos, without hope, for something that may never come._**

_The title and content were inspired by something my best friend told me about over the phone. She was talking about Dante's book about death, and mentioned that it had something like three parts or other, called 'Inferno', 'Purgatory', and 'Paradise'. Thus she inspired this three-part series._

**_Chapter Warning: This chapter contains a slightly Out of Character Feanor, and some slight mush at the end. I hope that this does not stop you from reading. Thank you!_**

_**Feanor, the Silmarillion, and all related/mentioned characters (c) J.R.R. Tolkien.**_

_**PART 2 OF 3.**

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_

_**The Books of Dante.  
Part 2.**_

_PURGATORY._

The grey Halls of Mandos stretched endlessly around him, haunting him, taunting him with memories of bygone days. He had long ago accepted the fact that he was never to return to his body in Aman.

He had long ago lost all hope.

The days passed sluggishly, crawling by on the wounded knees of a newborn babe as they pleased. And through it all, there was silence.

A silence that he had locked himself into.

He spoke to no one, saw no one, and would hear no one's pleas. Even Námo, the Doomsman of the Valar, could not reach him, so great was his guilt and self-loathing. Oh, yes. Curufinwë Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire, Crown Prince of the Noldor, was punishing himself. Brutally and relentlessly, he was castigating himself, over and over.

Today he was in the chamber where he could usually be found.

He was sitting on the floor once more, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped about them, and his emerald-green gaze staring hauntingly into nothing as tears trailed their ways down his pale face. It was plain to see that he was rebuking himself still, refusing to allow himself to find peace until he felt he had been sufficiently disciplined. He saw the images floating before his eyes, and yet, he did not see that his harsh punishment was undeserved, being served for acts that were not of his willing.

This was how the Doomsman found him that day.

"_Fëanáro Finwion, will you not listen to reason?_" The Valar's voice was exasperated and weary, pity and grief coloring the tone as well at the pathetic sight of the greatest of the Eldar reduced to what he was.

Needless to say, no reply was forthcoming from the Elf in question.

Námo sighed uncharacteristically before turning to move to the chamber's entrance.

"_You have a visitor, Son of Finwë,_" he said, "_Will you not see her?_" Again, silence reigned, and the Doomsman rolled unseen eyes. Then, he moved to the entrance and took a step outside. Murmured words were spoken, but Fëanor was too lost to hear them, dwelling in the silent purgatory and paying an undue penalty via his own memories. Finally, Námo stepped back into the room, still talking to a figure that was hooded and cloaked.

"_I warn you, you will not like what you see…_" the Doomsman was warning the figure, a she-Elf. She only stared determinedly ahead, replying softly that she would face whatever awaited her.

The Spirit of Fire registered none of this, trapped by his own will in his own personal hell.

Footsteps echoed through the chamber, and then she was standing behind his left shoulder as she had done so many times when he was alive. For a moment, she was hit with a wave of nostalgia and a longing to take him in her arms and comfort him before she recalled that this form of him was incorporeal and she could grasp him no more than she could hold the sunlight in her hands.

Several minutes passed as she waited to see if he would notice her, but his gaze remained locked, horrified, on the far wall. She felt her heart breaking at the sight of his anguish, and turned to Námo.

"O keeper of the dead, is there no way that I can comfort him?" she inquired, "He will not respond to my presence- this much I know from when he was alive. He needs contact, a loving touch, which I cannot give him unless by some device currently unknown to me. Is there a way that I might aid him?"

And Námo delved into his ancient memory for an instant, searching for an answer to her questions.

"_Your fëar are still bonded: your marriage and love for one another never faded,_" he said at last. "_Your hearts yet beat as one. Touch him, for as one hroä seeks another, so does the fëa seek its mate. Physical contact may not yet be possible, but your souls can still touch just as easily. Embrace him as you are, and it will be as if you were embracing him in his body._" She offered him a smile that expressed gratitude beyond mortal comprehension, and then turned to her still-unresponsive husband. Kneeling, she hesitantly set a feather-light touch against his shoulder.

He stiffened involuntarily at the contact.

She felt her heart swell with joy as those glassy green eyes slowly came into focus once more, and she reached up to remove the hood of her grey cloak from where it rested upon her copper tresses. He looked up at her through a dizzy haze, barely daring to believe that such a warm presence could be felt and could touch him without being marred, could even exist in the empty halls of Mandos. She looked down at him with love, and hope, and forgiveness and understanding, elation swimming in her silvery-grey eyes as their gazes locked for the first time in Ages.

Neither noticed Námo slip out of the chamber to let them have some privacy. After all, understanding and acceptance were the first steps towards healing.

No words passed between the two Elves, for there was no true need. Haunted green eyes gazed into compassionate silvery-grey ones; and she could see the flames, smell and taste the blood, feel the death and fear and horror reflected in his emerald orbs. He could see the kind concern and empathy in hers. It touched his soul like no other thing had done in all the long years since he had passed the circles of the living plane to come reside in Mandos.

And then, the tears came.

Like a dam had broken beneath her kindness and consideration, the emotions were let out in a trickle, and gradually a flood; and great sobs the like of which had never been heard before save from Nienna were ripped from his throat. His fëa quaked under the strain, nearly breaking, and she, stifling a sob of her own at the sight of her husband's guilt and grief, enfolded him in her embrace; allowing him to cling to her as she sang an old lullaby that had once calmed him when the stress of dealing with the forge and his stepmother and half-brothers had become too much for him to bear. A slender, calloused hand gently stroked ebony locks in a soothing gesture as she allowed him to shed his tears, relieve the anguish that had been long in coming and stubbornly restrained for far too prolonged a time.

Only after a lengthy spell did his weeping abate somewhat. It was then, when he was merely sniffling, that he looked up into her softly smiling face once more. It was then, when she gently stroked his bangs away from his damp face and pressed her soft lips to his in a tender kiss, that he knew that he was forgiven.

Now the healing could truly begin, and Nerdanel relished the thought.

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**_I apologize for Feanor being OOC in this chapter, but I remember reading somewhere that when Elves feel emotions, they feel them very sharply, and I figure that, due to Feanor being semi-innocent in this story, he would feel a piercing grief for his sons, Nerdanel, and those he killed. And, since grieving is the first step to emotional healing... you get the idea, right? Anyway, hence the reason for the super-weepy Feanor in this chapter._**

_**Again, I could really use some feedback for this chapter. A big shout-out to everyone who reviewed: THANK YOU SO MUCH!! YOUR CRITIQUE AND ENCOURAGEMENT MEANS A WHOLE LOT TO ME!! -HUG-**_

_**Ahem. I apologize if that outburst hurt anybody's ears.**_

_**Once more, I will greatly appreciate it if you take the time to review. As always, doing so is optional, and I will not withhold an update due to lack of feedback. Thank you, and have a nice day!**_

_**-GundamWingFanatic90**_


	3. PARADISE

**_THANKS SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER! This includes: MerryKK._**

**_Written by GundamWingFanatic90. Submitted 3-29-07._**

**_Summary: Feanor, from the Silmarillion, is often displayed as being harsh, cruel, and even psychotic. His reunion with his family after being released from the Halls of Mandos._**

_The title and content were inspired by something my best friend told me about over the phone. She was talking about Dante's book about death, and mentioned that it had something like three parts or other, called 'Inferno', 'Purgatory', and 'Paradise'. Thus she inspired this three-part series._

**_Chapter Warning: This chapter contains lots of out of character people, including Feanor and the Valar. It also contains insinuations of romance at the end. I hope that this does not stop you from reading. Thank you!_**

**_Feanor, the Silmarillion, and all related/mentioned characters (c) J.R.R. Tolkien._**

_**PART 3 OF 3.** _

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**

**The Books of Dante.  
Part 3.**

_PARADISE._

It was truly strange, he thought as he stood in the center of the Mahanaxar, to be back in his body, and in Aman, no less. And it was even stranger to be in the presence of so many great beings. All around him sat smiling faces; even Nienna, who could normally be seen with nothing but sadness, was grinning through her tears with happiness at the soul that had finally found reconciliation.

And Curufinwë Fëanáro, son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor, was blinking back tears.

Olòrin was there next to Melian, beaming at the Elf in contrast to the female Maia's soft smile. Tulkas was grinning toothily, Yavanna wearing a smile that matched Melian's from next to him; Námo and his spouse both possessed small, gently upturned lips that conveyed their joy, as did Irmo and his spouse; Aulë seemed prouder and happier than ever before as he gazed upon his prized smith; Oromë and Ulmo were wearing identical, knowing smirks; Manwë was solemn-faced, but his joy shone in his eyes; and Varda, Elbereth Gilthoniel, was as positively radiant as the lights she had once kindled in the heavens.

And still, tears gathered at the corners of the eyes of the greatest of the Eldar.

"_Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, Mandos tells us that you have at last come to terms with yourself and are ready to be re-embodied,_" said Manwë at last. "_Is this true?_" Too choked up with emotion, Fëanor simply nodded. Curse these bloody tears to the Everlasting Darkness, but they wouldn't stop blurring his vision. Manwë imitated the affirmative motion of the Elf before him.

"_Then we have but one request of you, Flame Child,_" stated Varda. She nodded to Aulë, who turned behind him to pick up a cushion. Fëanor drew a sharp breath as the Vala turned back around, coming forth to place the cushion on a pedestal in the center of the Ring of Doom. Taking a lungful of air to steady himself, he gazed up into the face of the Queen of the Valar.

"What do you ask of me, O Valar?" he inquired, already knowing the answer. "What would you have me do?" Varda and Manwë motioned as one to the Silmarils, which rested innocently upon the pedestal before him.

"_Will you deny Yavanna her wish once more, or will you grant it?_" asked Tulkas. Fëanor closed his eyes, inhaling a gulp of fresh, reassuring air before stepping forth towards the jewels that had caused so much pain and sadness, that had been the reason that six of his seven sons had perished. Gazing upon the creations of his hand and seeing the light captured within, he saw his family's faces swimming in the gentle caress of the silver and gold radiance.

"Lord Tulkas," began the Elf, "The last time you asked me that question, I heard my lips give you an embittered reply before I could stop myself. This time, I shall do no such thing." He lifted his emerald gaze to stare into the eyes of Yavanna where she sat in front of him. "I shall break the Silmarils, and release the light within so that it might guide us in the darkness once again." And Yavanna's eyes watered even as she beamed at him in gratitude and joy, and at once she rose to her feet, striding forth to stand opposite Fëanor next to the pedestal.

"_And I shall create the Trees once more,_" she told them all in a soft voice. Fëanor closed his eyes and bowed his head.

"Then, by your leave, I shall break them now," said he. "For they have caused enough pain in that captive form that they ought to be released from it, so that no longer can they be selfishly hoarded by their crafters, nor coveted by darkness. Yavanna, if ye be prepared, I shall destroy them at this time, and bathe Aman once more in their glow for all to see." And Yavanna smiled at him, and nodded.

In a heartbeat, the deed was done.

Fëanor, borrowing a hammer from Aulë, smote the Silmarils, shattering the jewels using their very few weaknesses. The light spilled forth, unbridled, and then was suddenly channeled into two forms, which the Spirit of Fire could see even from Mahanaxar, growing on the green hill of Ezollahar. The Two Trees, Laurelin and Telperion, had been remade with Yavanna's song, and their brilliance was even greater than had once been, for this light had been harnessed with love, and love had held it strong in its prison until that same love had broken the bonds to release it unto the world. And Yavanna, in her joy of the creations, and gratitude towards the only Elf that could have ever helped to remake them, embraced the stunned being as a mother would before kissing his brow.

"_Thank you, Fëanáro. Thank you,_" she said to him. He smiled and hesitantly returned her hug, wondering why his eyes were still blurry and why his cheeks were wet again; and why he could see Nienna crying tears of joy as she hugged her compatriots around her; and also why the other Valar and Maiar all had tears in their eyes, if they weren't openly weeping for happiness.

He was released from Yavanna's grip, and then all was solemn once more, though none of the beings around him could hide their tears and radiant grins.

"_Curufinwë Fëanáro, you have done what we asked of you,_" said Manwë, "_And you yourself have acquired the only forgiveness that you have truly needed for the long Ages since your death: your own. Now go, and greet the family that is waiting for you in Tirion._" Manwë swallowed, blinking hard and beaming. "_Go, and be happy once more._"

And so Fëanor did.

Not too long later, he entered Tirion, where the Elves were all gathering to gaze in wonder at the new Trees. As all eyes were fixed on the golden and silver light, the Spirit of Fire walked in, unnoticed, until he reached the outermost of the Eldar. When he approached, the Elf in question drew his gaze away from the radiance at the sound of footsteps, and upon setting his sight on the dark-haired Noldor before him, promptly fell slack-jawed and took a step to the side. Others around him, seeing this motion, began to slowly make way in front of Fëanor in stunned silence, ceasing their murmuring. And so, the Greatest of the Eldar made his way silently towards the front of the throng, where a group of Elves was gathered that had not taken notice of his advance. However, he did not blame them for not detecting him, for he knew them. He knew them very well.

After all, it was not every other Elf that possessed copper hair, and there were several of these mixed in with this assembly.

And so, it was with a guilty amusement that he crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and shifted his weight onto one leg before breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over the city.

"Ai, I returned hoping to find my family, and here I discover a group of Elflings gawking at the light of two Trees," he said lightly. Every one of the Elves there whipped around at the sound of his voice to stare at him, and the dumbfounded faces of his family were revealed to him for the first time. After a long few moments, Finwë, Fëanor's father, stepped forth, regarding his eldest son in a kind of reluctantly hopeful manner, as though this was all a figment of his imagination and he would wake any second to find that it was only a dream.

"Curufinwë…?" came the quiet question. "Fëanáro, my son, is it truly you?" A small, sad smile widened across Fëanor's face, and he stood straight, and uncrossed his arms.

"Aye, Atar, it is I," he softly replied. Finwë took a small, hesitant step forward, and then the younger Elf blinked and he was tightly encircled in his father's arms. He stiffened instinctively, but then relaxed, closing his eyes and returning the elder's embrace with a quiet sigh.

A veritable storm of greetings and embraces soon followed, and an impromptu celebration was called to honor the re-forging of the Two Trees. Fëanor found himself returning tearful hugs from Celebrimbor and each of his sons, including Maglor, who had finally crossed the Sea on the last ship to leave Ennorath alongside Celeborn of Lothlorien and Doriath. Then his stepmother, and his half-brothers and their families had greeted him just as enthusiastically. The only one that Fëanor did not embrace was Nerdanel, who stood off to the side with a gentle smile lingering on her lips.

As the Elves of Tirion danced, Fëanor watched from his seat on a doorstep, content to see his family and the other residents of the Elven city happy once more, and he caught sight of his wife slipping away into the silvery twilight outside of the square. He knew where she was going, though; he could tell it by her direction. He would see her later, once the festivities had died down a bit.

Three hours passed, and Fëanor took his leave of the celebration, telling his father and sons that breaking the Silmarils had been a taxing effort, and that he was weary from it. So he followed the familiar path that he had seen Nerdanel move down, relishing the sight and feel of being in Tirion once again. Upon arriving at the house, he saw that there was a candle lit in their bedroom.

She was waiting for him.

He entered through the front door, running his hand over the familiar moldings around the doorframe, the same carvings that his hands had etched in the warm wood. His gaze traveled around the entry room. It was the same as the day he had left.

He shook himself from his reverie, and moved down the hallway to the room that he had shared with his wife for many centuries. The door was standing halfway open, and golden light spilled out onto the floor.

He was frozen in his tracks by the vision that awaited him.

Nerdanel was sitting on the side of their bed nearest the window, and the silvery light of the new Telperion on her face made her seem to glow, the faint golden candlelight issuing from the desk lighting her back just enough for him to make out the thin nightgown she was wearing. She was beautiful.

As he watched her from the doorway, she felt his gaze on her. She turned to look at him. Rising to her feet, she gracefully crossed the room to stand before him.

He felt his breath hitch.

"Nerdanel…" he whispered, his eyes boring into hers. The same gentle smile that had graced her lips at the celebration spread across her face at the sound of his voice. She took another step forward. Then her strong arms were encircling his neck as she rested her chin on his collarbone. Tilting her head up, she breathed,

"Welcome back, Fëanáro," into his ear. They were some of the most welcome words he had heard yet, and as he wrapped his arms around her back, pressing her to him, he buried his face in her russet locks.

They were content for several moments, and then they slowly pulled away to glance into each other's eyes, only matter of an inch or so between their faces. Then, in an ever so time-stopping fashion, they leaned in for a kiss, a savoring of sensation that had been long missed. It gradually grew more desperate, more passionate, and soon they were dancing a dance far more beautiful and intimate than any of the other dances that the other Elves were performing back at the square in Tirion.

Later, after the heat had begun to fade, Fëanor lay with Nerdanel cradled in his right arm, his limbs encircling her protectively as she guarded him with her own. And it was then that he tilted her head up to look her in the eye, and they exchanged a slow, tender kiss, one that conveyed so many good feelings that they felt as though they were soaring once more.

"I love you, Nerdanel," he said against her mouth after they had softly parted. He felt her smile in contentment.

"And I love you, too, my Fëanáro," she answered. "I truly do."

And so it passed that Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, former Kinslayer and puppet of Morgoth, returned to Aman. It is said that they all lived long and prospered happily under the light of the Two Trees.

Until, that is, the twin sons of Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, were born, and a massive siege of pranks was unleashed upon unsuspecting Valinor.

But that, mellyn-nin, is another story.

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_**END.

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Well, that's it for this story. I am so grateful to everyone who reviewed. Your commentary meant a lot to me.

I would still appreciate feedback on this and my other new Silmarillion fic, 'Comparing Notes', if anyone is interested. Thank you again for your encouragement and criticism. This includes: MerryKK, Legolas II Lassalanta, Ellfine, and lokimademedoit.

I hope to hear from you again, and I hope that the ending wasn't too sappy. Thank you!

-Fanatic


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